


where I can sing you to sleep all night

by awwcoffeenooooo



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Patching Each Other Up, Sharing a Bed, Smidge Of Angst, anyway, cuz let's be real he doesn't just have one, god i never thought I'd use that while writing Punisher fanfiction but here we are, snuggles, sort of slow burn but it's two parts so not too slow, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:43:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awwcoffeenooooo/pseuds/awwcoffeenooooo
Summary: "Don't bother with the sheets," she calls out, gaze not leaving the porcelain of her sink. "We can just . . . share the bed, huh? Just one night. I don't want you being uncomfortable."—Or, it all sort of happened and now Karen can’t really get rid of Frank even if she wanted to. Spoiler: she doesn’t.





	1. promise me a second time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KastleandCoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KastleandCoffee/gifts).



> For Brianna, my Kastle Secret Santa giftee!! I hope you’re having a lovely holiday season, and I hope this fic covers your prompts. I was able to cram in everything except the canon part of canon fluff, so there’s that!! :D
> 
> Ah, it’s Christmas time again. Aka the time of year where I blare Blink-182’s I Won’t Be Home For Christmas on repeat. But it’s holiday tradition to have a bed sharing or fake dating fic so . . . This was the perfect opportunity and I regret nothing. 
> 
> I’m gonna be busy tomorrow, so I’m taking the liberty of posting this an hour or so early. Hopefully no one will kill me for that XD
> 
> Title and chapter titles are from I Don’t Care If You’re Contagious by Pierce The Veil. It’s just such a Kastle song, and it has numerous references to blindness which makes me crack up every time. 
> 
> Anyhow, please enjoy!!

_Bury me in the bedroom where I,_  
I can sing you to sleep all night.  
Put me next to the open window,  
promise me a second time.  
'Cause I don't want to leave without you buried by my side.  
I'd rather kill the one responsible for falling stars at night,  
'cause they fall all around me.  
The night can be deadly.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
"You're an absolute futzing _idiot_ , Frank,"

Said man sighs, then takes another sip out of the bottle of bourbon that Karen had taken to stashing under her bathroom sink for occasions such as this. This, being Frank torn up and bleeding on her bathroom floor.

Frank leans his head back against the gray and chipping paint of her bathroom walls, eyes steady and focused as he watches her. Karen keeps her concentration steadily on the task at hand, looping the needle into Frank's gaping bicep before pulling taught, tying, and beginning a new stitch. It's become a well practiced maneuver ever since he had shown up on her fire escape in the middle of June, badly bleeding and what she now realizes was likely half dead.

It's November now -- a few days before Thanksgiving -- and they're still at it. Still Karen stitching him up, still Frank sipping on the same bottle of bourbon, still the same old stitches.

But this time, it's not just Frank beat to a pulp. No, her stitches pull at the back of her shoulder blade with every strenuous movement, but she swallows down the groans. Her mind traitorously reminds her that had she not followed her heart in this matter, she would be in bed right now instead of stitching up a dead man -- and vice versa -- at three in the morning.

It was worth it, she thinks. That doesn't mean she'd not pissed, though. Not by a long shot.

"Well, then that makes two of us," he growls back, but there's no bite. The beginnings of what will no doubt be a shiner tomorrow glint in the faded lighting, and she carefully traces the back of her knuckle over it.

"He means well," she retorts, standing to rinse her hands in the sink basin. A washcloth is there, the water in it already cooled, but she again runs it under the tap to warm it. "You both do,"

Frank blows out a breath. "Yeah, sure he does."

Karen sighs. He's like a petulant child at some points. Honestly, it's one of quite a few similarities between him and Matt. But this similarity was the one that had gotten them into this mess in the first place, so Karen wasn't one to be picking sides right now.

She falls to her knees before him, running the cloth gently over the contours of his face. His eyes, dark like the night, follow her every move. The crusted blood, grime and sweat slowly begins to give way to the gentler color of his skin.

"He only wants to do what's best," she responds when his gaze becomes too much. Her eyes dart down to his hands, to his scraped knuckles and rough callouses.

"Well," Frank answers, still watching her through the falling of her hair around her face. "then maybe his best isn't quite the best, huh? Wasn't the best for those kids, yeah? They coulda used someone a bit less . . . tied up."

Karen rolls her eyes. "I'm not getting into this with you. What Matt does or believes is his own business, and I'm more than content to let it stay that way,"

Frank stays quiet, but she can see the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. Sighing, she hesitates only a moment before allowing her lips to fall against his temple. It's quick, barely a brush of her mouth against his over heated forehead, but it's enough to allow his eyes to flutter shut.

She stands, quickly, gathering up the packets and gauze and scissors that litter her bathroom sink. It's part of this thing they do now -- the one where either of them does something that just might be toeing the line into something more than partnership, more than just this unsteadily steady friendship. But regardless, it's over as quick as it began -- no exceptions, no explanations. They continue on.

"Are you staying over?" she asks, packing the supplies into the oversized plastic tote. There's gotten to be so much over the past few months it hardly fits anymore, despite her upgrading to larger and larger containers.

He grunts, stands. She can see a wince come over his face in the mirror, and she shoots a small smile his way. She's still mad at him, but it's hard to be when he's both shirtless and in pain.

"I'll grab the blankets," he responds, already moving to where he knows her extra set of bedding is stashed. She can hear the cabinet open out in the hall, and she runs a hand back through her hair. The movement tugs on her stitches, and she hisses, gently lowering her arm back down.

There will be time to wash her hair in the morning, she decides. She can deal with one night of smelling suspiciously like Frank, of gunpowder and sweat and earth and smoke. It's even a strangely comforting scent, though it could just be the exhaustion and residual adrenalin.

And, well, it could also have everything to do with Frank.

Karen can hear him still pulling out the bedding, and she seems to steel herself. He's injured, sore. It can't be good to sleep on her couch, however comfortable she may find it. If she's not overstepping, they could both just take the bed. It's a queen, there's enough space. No sense in both of them dirtying both of her sheet sets when they could just the one on her bed.

"Don't bother with the sheets," she calls out, gaze not leaving the porcelain of her sink. "We can just . . . share the bed, huh? Just one night. I don't want you being uncomfortable."

She can sense the freezing motion out in the hall, but Frank only pauses.

"No, ma'am," he returns. "I've slept on worse. I'll be fine,"

"But you don't have to be fine, Frank," Karen replies tiredly. "Just come share the bed. It'll save me an extra washing in the morning, too,"

There's another pause, then a resigned breath. Karen bites her lip, pushes her hair back behind her ear. "I'll be out in a moment,"

She's still mad at him. But in addition to everything that happened tonight, she's tired. And if there's one thing she's learned about anger, it's that it only adds to that exhaustion. So she'll let him slip, just this once. Tomorrow morning, however, is another case.

Her soap somehow finds it's way to her face long enough for her to half heartedly scrub at it before rinsing. Then her legs are carrying her to the bedroom, to where Frank is sitting somewhat nervously on the edge of her bed.

It's not that he appears nervous, but rather . . . hesitant. He's hesitating, and not for the first time, Karen wonders if this is too far out of their parameters.

But he looks up at her and asks instead, "Left or right?"

She's never thought of it like that, like she has a choice as to which side of the bed she wants. Only a handful of one night stands and a single boyfriend, could he even be called that, had ever made it this far, and usually she was too burned out to even think about which side of the mattress she would even sleep on. But here was Frank, offering a choice, and a ghost of a smile makes it across her face.

"Ah, right, I guess," she offers, and Frank nods, sliding over to his -- the left -- side of the bed.

Carefully, she pads over to her side, peeling back the comforter and sliding under the blankets. Next to her, Frank hesitates but a moment before doing the same, rolling to face the wall.

She tries not to smile at his stiffness, and instead turns the light out. She barely manages to whisper a "Goodnight, Frank," before her eyes are falling shut like bricks.

But, maybe, she catches a "'Night, Karen," in return as he turns to let his breath fan over her face.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking. Or, perhaps it's Frank.

 

* * *

 

She awakens to a warmth at her back.

It's strong, like a furnace, and firm against her spine. Breath lightly tousles her hair in the morning light, faint as it is, more of just a lightly gray layer of light. It's comfortable. Homey. A quiet buzz echoes in through the curtains from the street below, passerby beginning their lives. There's the distant whine of a siren, but it's so faint, it's like it's a million miles away from here, in the little nest they have. It's almost like home, warm and familiar and away from the chaos that makes up their world out there.

But not here. Here, she is simply another of millions waking up to the person they love. Sadly, he doesn't quite know it.

It's clear to her that he'd rolled over in the middle of the night, probably mistaken her for Maria and taken to her for comfort. It might hurt some, to be mistaken for another woman. But it doesn't affect her. If anything, she's glad to just have gifted a presence for him. Maria is his first love. She's a part of him, as much as the memento mori he bears at night. She will not replace her, and somehow that's fine. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't ache; it just is.

It's barely six. She kisses his palm, and falls back into slumber.

 

* * *

 

 

Her real morning starts when she rolls over to find her nose tip to tip with Frank's.

And funnily enough, he doesn't seem too concerned.

He just grins a little half grin of his, and though perhaps the effect is a tad undermined by the dark shadow of his blackened eye, she can't help smiling back, however small. There's still quite a bit of space between their bodies, so it's not quite as intimate as it could be, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel like it. Because it does feel intimate -- not in the way sex does (she pushes her mind firmly away from that train of thought), or even kissing someone breathless. No, it feels different. More caring, more loving, and the longer she finds herself watching the dark pools of his irises, the further she finds herself falling in.

Frank's hand moves up from her hip, where it's been rested for the better part of this night, to her cheek, and gently he brushes a strand of hair that had fallen across her nose. Karen pushes down the instinct to startle, instead leaning her head further into the pillow.

"'Morning," he rumbles, and Karen swallows thickly. Of course he has a morning voice, and now she knows what it sounds like, and there's no going back . . .

"Good morning, Frank," she responds, trying to keep a modicum of calmness about her. His eyes are soft, watching every little expression play out over her face.

And no, this is not how she imagined her morning playing out. Hell, her life. But she'll take it. It's all worth it, just waking up to Frank and his voice and his hands, regardless of how beat his knuckles are or bruised his face.

Perhaps it's moments, or perhaps it's hours, but his breath is warm against her lips and hers on his. She can tell, tell it in the little lick his tongue dares at his bottom lip, and she again swallows at it. This isn't right, this can't be right. But then why does it feel like it?

They're both ripped from their moment by the phone vibrating insistently on the night table, and Karen pulls back to reach for it. It's a message from Ellison, and her stomach sinks at it. It's a stark reminder of the world they both belong to, the roles they must each play. For her, it's easy. Or at least it was until Frank came along.

He's already up by the time she's tapped out a reply to his questions of where she's been, and she spares only a quick glance as he pulls on a fresh pair of jeans from the stash he keeps in the bottom of her dresser.

"I'll, uh, start the coffee," he says, more of a statement than anything else. And she's struck by it, their old routine coming to mind. He's always up by five, no exceptions, coffee brewed and breakfast ready by six. But not today, after sharing a bed for the first time, he'd instead stayed with her. At rest. She wonders if it's the first time he's had a chance since his family.

She tries not to ponder it, instead softly shutting the door after him and pulling on a sweatshirt over her camisole and yoga pants in place of her sleep shorts. Her stitches protest accordingly, but she bites it down.

Frank's in the kitchen, humming faintly along to her old record player that sits in the corner. He's got butter heating in one pan while he mixes batter, and the coffee maker is slowly filling her small apartment with the scent of life itself.

She moves to sit at the bar, elbows resting on the counter as she perches herself on a barstool. Frank slides her a mug of coffee as he continues fixing breakfast, cracking eggs and flipping pancakes. It's quiet, still, in a way that only domesticity can be.

Karen tries not to dwell on that too much -- domesticity. It's something that can't happen, and therefore shouldn't be sought after.

He leaves after breakfast, and Karen's left alone, wondering about him. If the bed had meant anything at all, or if she had just royally screwed over everything they'd built.

 


	2. sober and scaring me to death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm in a half delirious state cuz being sick sucks, but I'm hoping this chapter is alright. It could be utter crap, but I'll leave that up to you all to decide. 
> 
> Brianna, please enjoy :) I had a lot of fun writing this whole thing, so I hope it's up to your standards. Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year :)

 

_I'm gonna tear out the thread one by one from your skin_

_'till your bones feel embarrassed by all the attention._

 

* * *

 

The days pass slowly after that.

Karen spends a lonely Thanksgiving with takeout from the Chinese shop on the corner, the only place actually open for business. Or maybe the owners know her by face now, and just had to take pity on her. Either way, her orange chicken somehow tastes about a million times better than her father's turkeys ever did, and that makes her guilt over the unopened messages on her phone decrease tenfold.

She continues with her editorials, with her crime pieces and exposes, over the weekend, turning them in to a happy Ellison. Happy that she's writing, that is, but rather bitter over the fact she just spent an entire holiday vacation on the job.

But then Tuesday comes, and with it comes Frank.

She'd be lying to say she was expecting him at all. After the whole bed episode and that morning -- she still gets fluttery chills just thinking about it -- Karen had decided it would be nothing short of a miracle should Frank ever actually appear again.

But here he is, a dorky smile on his face, and he holds up a sack of coffee grounds. She can smell the dark roast from here.

"You really don't have to bribe me," she tells him with a small smile, but opens the door anyway to let him in.

Frank shrugs, slipping off his coat to hang on her rack. He slides a gun out of the waistband of his pants, leaving that in his coat pocket as well. It's strange that that movement should be what causes a flood of warmth for the man to rush through her system, but it does. It makes her happy that he actually feels safe enough here, with her, to leave the warzone at her front step and be at peace in her presence.

"I, uh, wanted to thank you," he shuffles off his boots before following her into the kitchen. "For patching me up the other night. And for not kicking my ass to the curb,"

Karen tilts her head, not facing him as she preps the beans and retrieves the French press he'd insisted on leaving here. "Well, I'd be lying to say I'm not still considering it,"

He chuckles, looking down, and Karen bites down on a smile.

"I was also thinking that you might, uh, need someone to take out those stitches of yours," hands stuffed in his pockets, she's suddenly struck with the realization that Frank's shy. He's just as nervous as she is about this whole thing, but whether that's a hopeful case of nerves or the _oh god can we please forget that ever happened_   type is still a mystery.

She clears her throat, offers a quick little smile as she pushes a handful of her hair back behind her ear. "Oh, um, yeah. Yeah. Might save me an awkward phone call to Foggy, huh?"

"Maybe," he agrees with a little amusement himself, watching as she reaches for the kettle of boiled water.

"I mean," she shrugs, even as she pours the water into the press. "he can hardly deal with Matt going out at night, never mind me having actually followed the both of you out there."

Frank merely grunts at that, and inwardly she curses for having brought up Matt in the first place. It's not that she thinks it wrong to talk about him, but rather that she's not trying to convey romantic notions right now. Even if that romance had been sort lived and since long dead.

A lapse of silence falls over them, Karen idly tapping her fingers against the countertop as she waits for the coffee to steep. It's not quite strained, but not quite comfortable either. She supposes it's still not the worst thing that could be happening right now, all things considered. The fact Frank is even standing in front of her after that debacle is nothing short of a miracle. She should be happy that they're getting back to their old routines. But somehow it stings, like citrus in a cut, because while she knows it's a cleansing thing that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. There are still _what ifs_ playing through her head, and fantasies left over from the following nights in bed. Dreams of what they could be, could have done, could do right now. Thoughts of Frank holding her safe against this city's darker pull, of coming home to him in her otherwise lonely apartment, of maybe even being able to leave this place one day.

But she pushes these thoughts from her head. It'll do no good to romanticize the improbable, and this is exactly that. Improbable that Frank could want her, that Frank is ready to move on if he does. So many ifs she's drowning.

The coffee is ready, and she pours a cup for each of them. Black, no sugar. She's found it's more effective that way -- dark and strong.

He takes his with a grunt of thanks, and then allows her to brush past him towards the couch. He follows.

Frank sits next to her on the couch, thigh close enough to just barely brush against her knee. She steadies her breathing, forcing herself to not focus on the way heat leaches through the fabric to her skin.

There's a beat more of awkward silence, but Frank breaks it by taking a drag from his mug. "You're getting better at it, Miss Page,"

She laughs, a tad forced and overly cheerful, but the humor isn't lost on her. Foggy had teased her relentlessly for her subpar skills, and Frank had only reinforced the fact after their partnership had begun.

"I guess keeping the hours I do I sort of have to make sure I don't drop dead somehow," she shrugs, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Her eyes dart over to catch Frank grinning softly, and she's somewhat flashed back to the very first time they spoke in that hospital all those months ago. Her mind pauses, because months doesn't seem quite right and . . . it's not. It's been a year and a half. Karen swallows tightly, wondering where the hell time had gone. But regardless, that half smile remains the same.

They sit for a few more minutes, the peace soft. Karen's old record player in the corner fades off into nothingness, the last strains of a quiet love song fading into the air between them.

The turntable keeps spinning, so she places her mug down on the coffee table and stands to replace it. Frank follows her motions, but she knows he's headed to the cabinet for her overstocked first aid kit. Her stomach turns. She's no stranger to pain, but having stitches where she can't see them is something of a first.

But once the record is flipped and the songs continue, she turns to see Frank setting out the things he'll need, frowning until he digs out the bottle of aspirin and sets it on the table next to her coffee mug. He cares, and she trusts him unreservedly. He'll take care of her as best she can, something which she has no doubt of. 

"Time already, doc?" she jokes, though it falls a bit flat in the air between them.

Frank shrugs. "Now or never,"

He scoots back on the sofa, making room for her to sit just on the very edge of the cushion. She closes her eyes, reminding herself to breathe and do anything but concentrate on how near he is to her.

His hands gently trace up the sweater she's wearing, a cream thing with little threads of color sewn through it. His touch is light, almost comforting, as his fingers move from her lower spine up the edges of her shoulder blades and then just to the very edge of her neck.

"You'll need to, uh, take this off," he breathes, close enough to her ear to let his breath blow over it.

She swallows, reminds herself of what they're really doing, and then shakily replies, "I'd like a bit of romancing first,"

Frank blows out an amused breath from between his teeth, and Karen schools her mind enough to grasp the edge of her sweater and pull it up and over her head. She tosses the garment to the side, gathering and pulling her hair over the curve of her uninjured shoulder.

She's forgone a bra as often as possible lately, and today is one of those days. The straps rub uncomfortably against her stitched wound, and so she hadn't though twice of not wearing one today. But now she both regrets and is somewhat proud of the fact, a combination that sets her stomach into knots even as she crosses her arms over her bare chest.

Frank's sharp intake of breath is breath is quickly covered over by his calloused fingers gently running over and around the gash in her back. She can tell he's thinking of the man who had tried to stab her, thankfully missing anything too important before Frank had put a bullet in his head. But his touch now is nothing short of gentle and caring, and her eyes flutter shut as his fingers rove over the area.

"This might hurt a bit," he warns, voice rough and even a tad husky, as she hears the gentle slice of scissors.

The brief cold of the blade against her skin contrasts delightfully against the heat of his hands. He works slowly, methodically, snipping each stitch before tweezing out the thread.

There's a pinch each time, but it's softened by the careful grace he uses when handling her. It's only a matter of minutes before she feels the last stitch slide out, and Frank carefully thumbs over the now puckered area of skin. His breath, already lukewarm against her back, grows heated as he leans closer and gently sets his lips to the wound, dropping a kiss and lingering for a longer moment than necessary.

Karen sucks in a breath, trying to control her heart rate even as his large hands descend on her upper arms. He gently kneads her biceps, sending cascades of warmth through her bare skin.

"That's it," Frank breathes, mouth close to the shell of her ear. "How're you feeling?"

More than ready to kiss him senseless, but Karen bites back any reply her mind can come up with. Talking means stuttering over the thick mess he's made her tongue into, or suddenly spinning to hold his face and mold their mouths and never let go, the world outside be damned.

She's almost thankful she can't see his eyes, scared of what her body might do, and how she likely wouldn't resist any of her instincts. She instead focuses on her thoughts, of the crime scene photos of his wife and children, the graves they both visited together a few months ago. That is what his heart belongs to, not her. Not a girl from small town Vermont with scars on her legs and death in her mind.

"Fine," she manages somehow, wanting to pull away from his touch but not knowing how.

He makes the choice for her, pulling away softly and returning the items to her kit. Karen nods to herself, grasping her discarded sweater and pulling it back over her head. Not being able to look directly at him, she instead grabs her coffee mug, taking a sip of the now tepid liquid.

Frank finishes placing all the utensils back in the kit, and stands to get a glass to hold rubbing alcohol, which he places the scissors and tweezers into before returning to her side.

He doesn't say anything, which isn't out of the usual. Frank's a quiet man at moments like this, she's come to find. His guns can light up a whole city street, but at rest he's like an oversized cat.

"Do you have any plans for Christmas?" she offers instead, desperate to put what had just happened in the back of her mind. She can analyze it later, when she's alone, and Frank has inevitably left.

He shakes his head, draining the last of his coffee in one go. "No, not really. Lieberman wants me over, says the kids miss me," he shrugs. "I'll probably drop by there a few hours."

"Oh," she nods, swallowing down something that tastes suspiciously like disappointment. "That's . . . nice of them," she decides on eventually, nodding.

Karen's happy for him. Really, she is. It's good for him to have somewhere to go, someone to confide in. Someone who isn't her and who doesn't have more than just a small crush on him.

"How about you?" he asks, elbows leaning forward on his knees. "Any plans with those lawyers of yours?"

She shrugs, looks up at him only to look back down. "Just me and a bottle of wine,"

He doesn't reply to that, but she'd be lying to say there wasn't anything in his eyes.

* * *

 

Frank leaves that night.

Their entire encounter had felt off in the best of ways. This was perhaps the first time he'd ever appeared outside of injuries or a quick place to crash. And he'd brought coffee and yeah, it felt like a social visit. A social visit with long looks and heated silences and maybe Karen was just reading too much into things, but it felt for the first time like it hadn't been just her who had wished something more had happened in that bed.

The hours pass into days, and by three days she's lapsed back into her routine. Wake up, skirt and make up, shoes, bag, keys -- work. Home, a lonely existence and coffee before she sleeps only to do it all over again.

And then Frank shows his beautiful face, and this time there's no stitches she needs removed, and he sort of just sets his feet up on the coffee table and she lets him. It's not as if there's anyone else to scoff at the state of her furniture, and anyway his fluffy amount of hair sort of looks at place against her cushions. He falls into place alongside her life, and it doesn't feel wrong. It feels right, like a part of her had finally found acceptance.

For once, she doesn't try to fight the darker parts of herself. They learn to instead live alongside Frank's, every other day when she arrives home to find him sitting up against her door.

* * *

 

It's nearing Christmas when wine is buzzing through her veins alongside a number of shots.

It's not traditional. But then, neither are they. Frank brings something strangely unique over in place of his usual coffee, and they pull out Karen's old dusty shot glasses to find out.

And then she finds the room spinning, more than a bit and less than clear, and her shoulder is digging into Frank's.

"I gotta tell you s'mthin'," she slurs, eyelids heavy against the room's turbulence.

Frank's not quite sober, but he's not quite drunk either. He watches her with something like amusement, but mixed with that soft look she just can't figure out for the life of her. He's warm against her, solid. Something nice to hold her up.

"I killed a man," she hums, leaning her head onto his shoulder. "Right in the chest," she mimes a gun with the hand not clutching high on his thigh, trying to feel him up somewhat through his denim.

"-- five, six, _seven_ ,"

She doesn't know what makes Frank stiffen against her, so different from how the night has gone so far, but she doesn't pay it much attention.

He's quiet for the rest of the night, only really touching her enough to carry her to her bed, tucking her in and turning out the light.

* * *

 

Matt -- Matt wouldn't make sure her gun was always cleaned and loaded and ready to go every so often. But Frank knows. He understands. 

Or at least now he does.

Not that he ever really asked the next morning, holding back her hair as she puked her guts into a toilet. After he wouldn't let her drink her cup of coffee and instead made her a cup of herbal tea that was so far back in the cupboard she'd forgotten she had it. After he kissed her forehead, gathered his jacket, and left.

But then he's back a day later, gun cleaning kit in his pocket, and her .380 is polished beyond what Karen's ever seen it.

* * *

 

The days leading up to Christmas are filled with a silent longing.

It's one not only for family or at the very least company, but also for a certain vigilante who drinks too strong of coffee and carries too much of the world on his back.

He's over almost too often, and it's not until two weeks after their little routine began that she starts to realize the mass shootings in New York are virtually nonexistent. She's basically calmed the war inside the Punisher, and somehow, she doesn't know how that makes her feel that he'd rather be with her than out shooting up crime rings.

It doesn't last.

The last handful of days before Christmas Eve are some of the worst the city has ever seen as various mobs and cartels end up bloody and slaughtered.

No one knows why, but she does. It's always the holidays that are hardest, she's found.

* * *

 

Christmas Eve finds her in pajamas on the couch, watching what is likely the worst romantic comedy she's ever laid eyes on. Her wine glass is filled for the third time, the clock is somewhere after eleven, and the lights are all out. This is what being single with no family looks like, and she wonders again when she became this person.

There's a knock on the door nearing midnight, and she stiffens. Her mind immediately darts to Frank, but she pushes it away. Always a possibility, but it's still only that.

Karen pulls her pistol from the coffee table, cautiously stepping over to the door so as to be as quiet as possible.

But it's all for naught, because it's Frank Castle standing there, snow still damp and wet on his shoulders and scruff standing out against her hallway's shitty lighting. Her gun drops to the table, and she doesn't believe she's ever ripped the door open so fast.

They stand there for a moment, Karen staring up at him in his big black trenchcoat, and him with that half smile of his.

"Frank . . ." she trails off, her eyes suddenly drawn to a bulge in his coat, one that's squirming against where his arm holds it against his chest. Her brow furrows, but his smile only grows, a bit more bashful if she's honest.

He uses his free arm to pull out a squirming little lump of fur, all gray and white and whining softly.

Her breath catches in her throat, and subconsciously she reaches out immediately to take the small puppy. It's small enough to fit comfortably in her arms, and she swears her heart swells. There's a little red ribbon wrapped around it's neck, something she catches sight of in between the pup nosing and licking at her neck and face.

He lets out a light laugh, and she pulls away long enough to see his eyes glittering with joy and a spark of that something she couldn't identify until now. It's caring, fondness, and if she were any younger and naïve, she'd call it something like love.

Frank scratches awkwardly at the back of his head. "I, uh, know it's late, and it's not right to give animals as gifts, but if you don't want him I'll always take him back and --"

He's cut short by Karen's body falling into his as her mouth meets his lips, warm and sweet. The puppy squirms between them, and Frank somehow finds it in him long enough to stop kissing her back to shift so he's not being squished, before his lips are enveloping hers yet again. His hands are on her waist again, hot and tender as he holds her close, and it only makes her want to drag him into her apartment to her bedroom.

But she resists, pulling far enough back so her forehead can rest against his, their breaths heavy and mingling in the space between them.

She watches, entranced, as his tongue darts out to lick at his lips. "I've, uh, wanted to do that for awhile now," he admits, voice soft but rough in a way that send shivers down her spine.

Karen chuckles lightly, bumping his nose with hers, and pressing an extra kiss to his cheekbone. "Me too,"

The puppy yaps, darting up to lick at Karen's chin, and she laughs, pulling back from him to make room for them all to move further into the apartment.

"He's one of my dog's puppies," he explains, moving towards where she knows he can smell coffee in the kitchen. "Lucky, she uh, she was pregnant when I found her. Dog fighting ring, they were breeding her. She wasn't doing good, and I wasn't risking animal control not getting to her in time, so . . . I sorta took her back with me,"

Karen sets the little thing down,  and he scampers off to follow at Frank's heels. He's undeniably a pitbull, with little sock patterns on his feet and too floppy ears and a stripe down his nose. It hurts her to think that people could only see the evil in this little thing, a puppy that's currently trying to attack the Punisher's socks.

"That's horrible," she settles on after a moment of not knowing how or what to respond to that with. "I'm glad you saved her, though. And the puppies,"

He grins at her, pouring her likely cold coffee into a mug. "It's not like it's a big deal. I've already got Arthur and Georgie, and they all get along pretty great,"

It's funny, she thinks, that this is a side she still has yet to see of him. He's always covered in dog hair, but it hadn't ever really registered that he did in fact still have animals of his own. It makes her feel worse that she hadn't ever asked, and instead assumed that a man so violent wouldn't have something as mundane as a dog to look after.

"I do like him, though," Karen adds, kneeling down to watch the dog play. "I've actually been considering adopting, so this works out. No more loneliness, huh?"

He shrugs, moving to mirror her position on the floor. "Not if you don't want it,"

Her mind puzzles over his words for a moment, and realization hits her. "I--I mean, everyday. I just . . . I miss you when you're not here," the admission has her cheeks blooming with color, but she'd be lying to say his aren't the same.

Karen can almost see him replaying the kisses from only minutes before in his mind's eye, and she steadies her gaze at his. "I know . . . I know you're dropping by really often. And I -- I love it. I do. But sometimes I also wonder what it would be like every day, instead of just a few times a week,"

Frank's hand reaches up to brush a piece of hair back from her face, hands tender as when he'd first taken care of her stitches, and it's only a moment before his face is once again leaning down to hers.

"I wonder like that too, Miss Page," he returns, half smile making a reappearance. "I wonder a whole damned lot,"

"Well," Karen breathes out, feeling puppy feet scrabbling at her socks. "Maybe we can wonder together,"

* * *

 

Christmas morning dawns to find her pressed up against Frank, his chest steady at her back and his hands leeching their ever present heat to her stomach. Poe the pit bull puppy is twined between their legs where he's been since Frank couldn't bear to hear his whimpers from his crate. Sure, she knows she's supposed to be firm. But this is something she could very much get used to.

Frank's mouth trails kisses down her neck, pushing aside her pajama neck to kiss and mouth down to the curve of her shoulder. She laughs, and rolls to face him, always mindful of Poe at her feet.

He smiles, lazy and content down at her, and Karen presses her neck up to plant a light kiss on his lips. "Good morning,"

"'Morning," he returns, and yes, his sleep voice. This time, she can't help kissing him again.

His hand comes up, cupping the side of her face to run through her hair before brushing it back from her face. His smile is beautiful, she thinks, so happy and free of the worry that always seems to crinkle his brow.

Frank leans forward to duck her head down, holding his lips to the crown of her head for a long moment. "Thank you," he breathes, and Karen can't help but look up.

"For what?" she asks, searching his face, her hand catching his to squeeze it tightly.

"For helping me to remember," he returns. "For being you,"

* * *

 

Later, they trek through fresh snow and empty city streets to a small apartment complex. Her hand in his, he laces their finger together even as he fits the key into the lock.

Poe squirms and whines to be let go, and Karen unzips her coat to set him free and let him roam around the living room. He scampers off, tail held high as his nails click against the flooring.

There's a chorus of excited whines and five dogs come racing around the corner right towards Frank. The man chuckles, releasing Karen's hand to kneel and accept his greeting of bouncing fur and slobbery kisses.

A pit bull, her hair short and white with a splotch of tan over one eye, pads over tentatively to Karen, and she put her hand out for the dog to sniff. The dog -- probably Lucky, she decides -- hesitates a moment before ramming her side into Karen's leg, clearly demanding to be pet.

"That's Lucky," Frank smiles, proud if she's being honest, and then proceeds to point out another pit bull, this one bearing a resemblance to Poe. "Arthur, and that one's Georgie,"

Georgie is not in fact a pit bull, but rather a stocky bull dog with soulful eyes and droopy skin. Karen falls in love immediately, running her hands over his coat while the dog stares up at her happily.

"I don't know how the hell you're able to keep all these dogs in here without your landlord calling animal control, but I've got to say I'm impressed," she laughs, patting at what is clearly one of Poe's littermates. "I mean, five dogs? They've got to be eating you out of house and home,"

Frank shrugs. "Worth it. They've all had tough lives." he runs a hand over Lucky's smooth coat. "'Sides, I uh, kept the cash from the betting pools at the rings. Use it for dog food and shit, seems fitting,"

Karen can't help but nod and agree, because it most certainly does. Karma's a bitch, and she can't help but feel it was rightfully served to those who were running the rings.

And still, he never fails to surprise her. She's found safety and understanding in him, and now she's found yet another reason to love him again. They're a mess, but at least they're a mess together. 

She takes Frank's hand and squeezes it, the two of them sitting on the floor surrounded by all of Frank's rescued dogs.

* * *

 

They never quite make it back to Karen's apartment.

Instead, she finds herself in Frank's arms again, the snow pattering softly against the window as a dog snores down the hall.

It's not at all the Christmas she thought it would be, but it's theirs. It's something new and exciting but all the same as old and steady as time, and she feels the flame in her chest grow a little brighter.

They have a lot to work through. There's the darkness in her chest and eyes, and there's the faded outline of a wedding band around his finger. But they're together, and right now, she feels ready to fight nail and tooth to keep them afloat.

She taps her finger gently against his knuckles where his hand is splayed against her stomach. He's asleep, the quiet pattern of his breaths lulling her to sleep as well.

"Merry Christmas, Frank," 

* * *

 

_They'll never take us alive,_

_'cause I'll chase away the darkness._

_I'll live in love and die._

_I joined the party for the recently blind._

_So if we're heading there together you can sing all night._

-

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Karen's record is based off my personal favorite vinyl, which is Foo Fighter's Greatest Hits. It's just something that fits my mind set of her, and I thought it was kind of fun. The love song playing is the acoustic version of Everlong, which is fairly popular but beautiful and definitely one of my favorite Kastle songs. I've had Sides C and D of this thing on repeat while writing, so enjoy that glimpse into my psych. 
> 
> Next: I have no idea how stitches are removed. I was considering googling it, but I'm not going to lie I'm terrified of needles and I've got a headache so go easy on me. I'll do all the gore in the world, but I draw the line at needles.
> 
> And finally, I do realize the odds of Frank's landlord actually letting him keep five dogs in an apartment is insurmountable, but let it go. It's fanfiction, guys. I'm sixteen, stressed, depressed, and obsessed. 
> 
> I hope all of you had a wonderful holiday season, and I hope you will also have a great 2018. Find me on Tumblr as whentheskyequakes if you want to chat, prompt, or learn more about the strangeness that is my mind.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read this far :)

**Author's Note:**

> The next part will be up before the New Year, but here’s to hoping my computer behaves so I don’t have to revert to writing it on my phone. 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope all of you have a lovely Christmas, and if you don’t celebrate it, then I hope you have a lovely week nonetheless :)


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